


because of nameless things

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Consent Play, Enemas, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Safeword Use, Spanking, Switching, reluctance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold recoils. John’s loyalty and devotion certainly deserve a better return than -- that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	because of nameless things

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Toft and Code16 for cheerleading and betaing, and to Morin for not letting me put this fic off in the Pile of Shame.

"What do you want?" John says, stroking Harold's side.

They're lying together in bed, warm in the aftermath of orgasm. Harold nuzzles John's shoulder. "Right now, to sleep."

John nips his ear. "You know what I mean." He stops asking, though, instead kisses Harold and strokes him until he falls asleep.

Later, Harold considers that question. John deserves... well, everything: but at the very least, an honest answer. What _does_ Harold want?

Nothing in particular comes to mind. He turns his thoughts to other matters, allowing the question to percolate.

~~

Harold is kneeling in the bathroom, setting up for dealing with some of the less pleasant side effects of his medication, when he's struck by the mental image of John assisting him.

Of course, Harold recoils, rejecting it out of hand. John’s loyalty and devotion certainly deserve a better return than -- that.

He carries on with the treatment, carefully thinking of nothing at all.

~~

Time passes, and Harold finds no satisfactory answer to John's question. Instead, Harold shares several more of his safehouses with John, as well as some childhood anecdotes. He finds John’s fascination with the latter inexplicable: they’re nothing out of the ordinary. “They’re yours,” John says simply, which Harold has no choice but to accept.

None of these seem sufficient, however, or worthy of the gift of John’s trust.

Even so, Harold very much wishes his mind would stop offering up -- medical treatment -- as a potential recourse. Even if swallowing his pride and asking John for help with sore muscles has proven not only immensely helpful, but visibly satisfying to John.

“That’s better,” John says, after working out a knot in Harold's leg. He seems more relieved than Harold feels.

~~

On one of the nights when John is away, Harold gives in. He sits at his desk in sock feet and pajamas, clicking away on a game of Solitaire.

When he keeps coming back to a thought, that usually portends something he's missing. All right. What, then?

Suppose he let John help him with... treatment. John might refuse, if Harold asked... oh, no, of course he wouldn't. When has John ever refused anything he found merely distasteful?

Even so, the mental image of John, bemusedly, saying, "Uh, you can probably handle yourself fine," makes him flinch.

But no, John would never be so casually cruel. He would know what even mentioning the possibility would cost Harold, which is even worse: John shutting off his disgust and going through with the process anyway. Working Harold with a gentle, impersonal touch, making sure that there was no pain and no unnecessary discomfort.

Harold's face burns with the thought, which is predictable. The pooling of blood in his loins is... less predictable, but not entirely shocking.

He really wishes he could explain away the ache in his chest, the lump in his throat.

That should put an end to it. Harold can picture less appealing things than John's pity, but most of them involve loss of life or gory violence. Their recent intimacy is too new and too precious to be tainted with anything like that.

~~

John says, "Tie my hands," voice choked, breath rushed, like he can't believe the words out of his own mouth. His sigh when Harold pulls the rope tight is wonderful.

In the aftermath, John lies dazed and quieted, very warm against Harold. Harold traces fingers over the beautiful musculature of John's back and thinks.

Who, given this, would even be greedy enough to ask for anything more? Who, with such a gorgeous feast laid in front of him, would longingly cast his eyes to the gutter instead?

Apparently, Harold is, and would. Denial has never been something he found useful. Better to accept reality for what it is. He won't ask John, won't say anything. Harold's thoughts are his own. He's always known he wouldn't get everything he wants.

~~

John says, "But what do _you_ want?"

He asked to tie Harold up this time, and of course Harold agreed. John picked the position, Harold on his back with his wrists tied together over his head. Harold is quite comfortable.

"I've enjoyed everything we've done so far," Harold says truthfully.

John's smiling very slightly. "That's not an answer."

Harold crooks up an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, is this an interrogation, now?"

John's smile grows, but it's edged, showing a white hint of teeth. "That's a possibility."

He jerks Harold's cock sweet and slick, brings him to the edge of climax and dangles him there.

"Honestly," Harold manages to gasp, "is this the best you can do?"

The smack of John's hand on his good thigh takes Harold by surprise, making him yelp. It hurts; not like cramping muscles or stiff joints, though. This pain is sharp and bright, making Harold's eyes widen.

"Just work with me," John tells him. His low voice is a familiar parody of intimacy: odd, given the very real intimacy they share, but fitting. "Tell me what you want, and this can stop."

The words "I don't know," rest on the tip of Harold's tongue, but go no further. He won't lie to John, certainly not for the sake of his own pride. He shakes his head instead, wordless.

John sighs. "I thought you might be difficult." He manhandles Harold, ending up with him lying over John's lap. The physical strength required and the underlying gentleness of the touch take Harold's breath away figuratively; the next strike of John's hand does it literally.

The blows come quickly after that, fading into one another, giving Harold no time to regain his equanimity. He grabs the sheet and gasps wetly as John hits him over and over.

"Okay," John says after a while. His hand must be smarting: Harold's ass certainly is. "Uh, yellow," he says, and Harold tenses and pays attention.

"John? Are you alright?"

"I don't know." John sounds tense, and Harold is abruptly terrified. John's not _good_ at boundaries, terrible at remembering that his happiness is not just Harold's responsibility but also his fondest wish. "See, I don't mind doing this if I'm sure you're into it, but I kinda worry you might just be too proud to safeword."

Oh. Well. Harold swallows past the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat. "I," he says haltingly, and then, "I could safeword if I needed to. This is... hard for me to answer."

"If you don't want to say," John starts, and Harold has to cut him off now. If he lets John continue, explaining will only become that much harder.

"I do want to." Harold's face is hot. "I'll tell you, but I have to be very certain that you want to know." There's a shift in John's position, a minute stress relaxed, and Harold can breathe easily again. "You know how to run an interrogation, Mr. Reese. Do continue; I suspect your subject is not far off from breaking."

John moves in for a kiss, hot and sweet for its brevity. "I'll bear that in mind."

Harold squirms and John eases his grip so Harold can turn around and look at him. "You do realize that you're under no obligation to say yes to-- to the thing I want?" he says, stumbling over the last part. "Please. Promise me you won't make yourself."

John's giving him a wry, fond look. He grabs Harold's shoulder and shakes it carefully. "If you think that makes me _less_ curious, you don't know me very well."

"I do know you," Harold says, with iron-clad certainty. John smiles at him, small and genuine, and turns Harold back over. It appears to be time to return to their previous festivities.

Now, when John hits him, Harold hears the too-even rhythm of his breaths, notes the way John is so very careful not to hit Harold's bad hip. It's not easy for John to do this, he knows, and that tips the scales: John wouldn't be pushing so far if he didn't truly want to know. "All right." The words come out almost in a sob. Harold squeezes his eyes shut. "All right. Listen."

John's hand rests warm on Harold's skin, rubbing as Harold details the humiliating specifics. "It's not-- something I've ever done for pleasure," he says, hoarse. "I can't explain why I'd want that, I'm truly sorry."

"Don't be." The circles that John's fingers trace over Harold's skin aren't soothing, exactly: the skin is too irritated. The faint ghost of pain they leave in their wake calms Harold all the same. "I asked."

Harold should let that be the end of it. John has what he wanted, and the next step is his. He's regretting his words before even speaking them, but he can't help himself. "And will you do it?"

He can't see John's face, but he knows the expression he has on just the same, familiar slyness evident in John's voice. "Have a little patience, Harold. You'll see."

~~

"Don't move," John says. His chest presses warmly against Harold's back.

Harold tries to turn around. John's hands are keeping him still. "What's the situation?"

John nuzzles behind Harold's ear. "I think you know what I'm after."

Both the intimate contact and John's words leave Harold breathless. "Do I?"

John pushes him forward. It's easier to go along with him than it is to resist, or so Harold tells himself. John says, "Sure, keep pretending you don't know, if that makes it easier on you." Harold closes his eyes. John steers him forward, making certain Harold doesn't stumble over or run into anything.

Even with his eyes shut, he knows they're in the safehouse's bathroom when they stop. John undresses him, pushes him to his knees, and Harold goes. He's not surprised to find a cushion under him when he settles.

"Are you going to cooperate?" John asks. "Or do I need to make you?"

A flurry of warnings and worries scatter in Harold's mind. Does John know how much he usually takes? Does he know the procedure? What if...

Overtaking all these, however, is a strange new calm. Of course John knows. Harold may have been vague about the details, but he was not secretive about the way he went about this process normally. John could figure it out if he wanted, know all the little facts, whys and wherefores. John would not be careless, and there was nothing unusual about the way Harold normally went through this procedure: most of the information John would need is available at any medical website.

"No," Harold whispers.

There is a pause, and then John asks for a color. Once Harold answers with "Green," John proceeds.

He bends Harold down, his hands gentle but implacable. Harold lets himself go pliant, acquiesces to the way John moves him, even as he whispers futile protests under his breath.

"Shh," John says, his hand firm and careful on Harold's nape. He directs Harold to lie down on his side, helping him into the position and angling his leg to expose his opening. "Yeah, I know. You have to. You don't get a choice." The genuine sympathy in his voice is not at odds at all with the sudden pressure at Harold's hole. It's warm, and hard: a pre-warmed nozzle. John has been thoughtful about this. Of course he is.

The first wash of fluid takes Harold by surprise, like it always does. For once, Harold doesn't bother with stoicism. He curses, low and ferocious, stuttering to a stop on another whispered, "No."

John repeats, "You don't get a choice." His voice is terribly full of empathy, his hand on Harold restraining and strong, immovable. "Just gonna have to see this one through."

Harold's cock is stirring. Despite everything, the motion brings a surge of panic to him, and humiliation: _what if John sees?_ Although of course John knows already, that was the whole point of this exercise....

"Harold," John says, "open your eyes."

Harold does, blinking in the harsh light of the bathroom. As soon as his eyes adjust, they land on John's lap, on his unmistakable erection. "Oh," Harold says, foolishly. He should know not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he can't help himself. "Why?"

John's smile is tiny, barely noticeable: his mouth hardly moves at all. "Just take it," he says, almost kindly, and Harold's further worries are drowned in the next surge of liquid into him, in the touch of John's hands, the focus of his eyes.

Then John wraps a hand around Harold's cock, and everything comes into focus: Harold blinks and is acutely aware that he's lying on a towel over the bathroom floor, that he has an enema pumping into him and John's hand on his cock. "Oh." The sound comes out of him as a sob, his stomach contracting helplessly as he tries to move towards John's hand.

"I've got you," John says, jerking him slowly. "Lie down. Let me."

His earlier _No_ s would feel like a lie, now, so Harold turns his face away and says, "Please," instead.

"Anything you want, Harold." In his peripheral vision, Harold sees John smiling, a flash of teeth. "Unless you want me to stop this." More fluid comes into Harold, filling him further, making him gasp. "You know you have to let me finish first."

Unbidden, images of exactly what John could do to him come to Harold's mind. He could force Harold open, fuck him while Harold was helpless and already so full; he could keep Harold in his sight past the time of Harold's usual elimination, making Harold beg for any scrap of dignity that he got to keep; he could prevent Harold from eliminating altogether, hold Harold through the excruciating cramps that would surely follow.

None of that happens. Instead, John swipes his thumb over the head of Harold's cock and says, "Gonna come for me?" and Harold does.

~~

Once the retention time is past, John gives Harold ten direly needed minutes of privacy, then comes in to help him shower.

"I'm perfectly capable of doing this by myself," Harold notes as John swipes a washcloth between his shoulder blades. "Mind you," he says, as John pointedly removes his hand, "I'm not complaining."

"Just so long as we're clear on that." John resumes his washing efforts.

He towels Harold dry afterwards, slides his pajama top on him and does up the buttons. Harold allows this, comforted by John's touch, and follows his beloved to their bed.

They lie together, legs tangled. John is still hard in his pants. Harold lets his hand rest on top of John's erection, offering without pushing.

"Do you still want to know?" John asks.

Harold has no inclination to play innocent. "Why you found this appealing? I'm not sure I do. But if you want to share, by all means, go ahead."

John comes nearer, angling for a kiss, which Harold gladly gives him. He arches up into Harold's hand, and Harold reaches into John's pants, taking his cock in a sure grip. John makes a very gratifying sound at that. "You looked good," John says, hoarse.

Harold makes a conscious attempt not to imagine himself, laid down on the tile floor. "No accounting for taste, I suppose."

John traces a finger over Harold's jaw. "Think about it. You hate showing more of yourself than you have to, but you picked the single most vulnerable situation for yourself, and you wanted me to see you like that. You wanted me to help you _through_ it."

Put like this, Harold supposes it makes a form of sense that John would be moved. He's not altogether sure how that translates to arousal, however. "I'm glad you found something enjoyable about the experience."

At that, John pulls him close. He doesn't quite kiss Harold: he rubs noses with him, of all the silly things, and rubs lips, almost nuzzling Harold's mouth. When he speaks, his breath is warm on Harold's lips. "Let me put it this way: suppose there was something I wanted, but was scared to ask for. Suppose I wanted it so badly that getting me to admit it would be like pulling teeth, because I'd've wanted you to know, but telling would _hurt_. And suppose you knew what it was, and found a way to give it to me, and then watched me squirming on the floor and begging for it." His hand presses gently on Harold's lower back, bringing Harold's abruptly half-hard cock into contact with John's thigh. Insufferably smug, John says, "That's what I thought."

Harold considers and discards several more protestations - that surely John writhing and begging (now there is a mental image that Harold would like to revisit) is not like Harold doing the same, in particular - but John chooses the next moment to lazily thrust into Harold's hand, reminding him of more urgent matters. "There," Harold murmurs, stroking John closer to orgasm. "There, I have you. You've made me feel so good, it's only right that you should come."

"Playing dirty," John grits out, eyes squeezing shut, and pulses in Harold's hand.

Harold wipes his palm on the sheet, unrepentant. "Takes one to know one."


End file.
